I just figured the stranger would always be there, on that journey every morning. I was thinking of him every time I had a spare second. I thought about his dark eyes, and his velvety voice, and his smile, and his bookshelf and how many of the same novels we might have. But that was nothing compared to just how much I was thinking about him on that one scary day he was gone. Stupid. I was a stupid, crazy idiot.
